A For Effort
by alchemy dream
Summary: Anakin really wishes he hadn't taken pottery as his elective. In the end, it's his pride, not his skill that's the problem, and ObiWan knows just how to tutor him. SLASH.


**A For Effort:Alchemy Dream**

**A/N:** What, what? I got a break tonight, and I need to do a little writing to take the edge off my half-finished finals. This is what I call a thera-fic. Dedicated to TempleMistress for her birthday.

Enjoy, reviews are love.

**Summary**: Anakin really wishes he hadn't taken pottery as his elective. Almost.

**Warnings**: **Slash**, like duh. And some considerable steaminess.

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Anakin _hated_ pottery.

He hated the texture of the clay, waiting for it to dry, and waiting for it to bake in the kiln. He never liked waiting much. He hated how messy it was, how he just wanted to shower every time class was over, but how he had to sit through his astrophysics class with the coarse grit, like sand, in all sorts of odd, uncomfortable places. He hated that it never looked like he thought it would, and the residual disappointment he got from pulling the piece out of the kiln and just wanting to toss it in the trash.

But most of all, he hated that he _sucked_ at it, that every other Padawan seemed to be an expert on hand building, on wheel throwing and glazing techniques. He never did like _not_ being the very best.

Students planted themselves at their wheels, pieces sat in front of them on the display platforms. Most Padawans were chattering about their handiwork, or giving helpful critique to each other. Some nodded in acknowledgment of flaws, whereas others refuted their neighbor's claims vehemently. Anakin sat alone in the corner with his dinky little raku pot. The other students had learned very quickly that their comments would not be helpful to Anakin. Negative feedback only fueled his hatred of the class, the world, and the stupid _stupid_ class requirements at the Temple. Who needed art, anyways? Wasn't his artful use of a saber enough? Oh, _no._ A warrior must also be a skilled potter as well, apparently. And it didn't help that today the professor had requested a guest critic. Who was sitting irritatingly close to him, analyzing his Padawan's shoddy craftsmanship.

Obi-Wan sat at the empty wheel beside Anakin, leaning forward, his hand bracing on his knee, still as could be. He cleared his throat a little, running a hand through his reddish-brown hair, never taking his pensive green eyes from Anakin's ceramic abomination. Anakin looked at him and let an aggravated, impatient sound creep out.

"Just don't say anything, Obi-Wan," he said defensively.

"You know I have to, Anakin. I'm critiquing," Obi-Wan said, his normally gorgeous accent considerably irritating.

"It's not that bad, Master," Anakin lied. Obi-Wan looked at it intensely for a moment.

"Why is it so...lumpy, Anakin?"

Anakin huffed indignantly. Just what he needed, Obi-Wan telling him that yet another thing he'd done wasn't perfect. His eyes moved back forth, from Obi-Wan to the professor, who had moved to begin class. The long wrinkly hand beckoned the Jedi Master to the center of the floor, and Anakin threw one last pleading look at him.

"Students, please focus your attention on Master Obi-Wan. He will be critiquing your pieces quickly this morning, as I have a previous engagement to attend to," the old woman said, her thick warbly voice penetrating Anakin's skull. He stared at Obi-Wan, pleading with him through the Force to just lie and gush about how eccentric his pot was, but was met with purposeful silence each time.

"Master Kenobi, if you will, walk around the room, find one adjective for each piece, and if the piece is unsuccessful, then discard it."

"What?" Obi-Wan said, wondering if he'd heard the old matron right.

"If the piece is unsuccessful, destroy it. Each student must learn to do things correctly, or not at all," she said, harshly. Obi-Wan bit his lip, and began making his way around the room. Anakin shook a little. Sure his pot sucked, but he _had_ worked on it for nearly three weeks, after all. Surely his Master wouldn't break it without a thought! His eyes followed the older man as he walked from wheel to wheel, picking up and observing each creation, smiling a little, or hesitantly throwing it onto the floor. One girl hid her face in shame as her ceramic teapot shattered on the cement, the lovely peachy-pink glaze she had worked so hard to get forever lost. Anakin's foot began tapping. He hadn't broken Morii's pot, and she hadn't even gotten hers finished, so surely he had a chance. And then, Obi-Wan was standing before him, reaching for the lumpy, lopsided yellow vessel. He held it in his hands, smoothing his big hand over the lip of it, holding it up to see the lights reflect on the cad yellow glaze.

"Horrible," was the word his Master used, before not throwing, but dropping the fragile pot to the space before Anakin's feet. His cobalt eyes watched all of his hard work shatter into thousands of pieces, and his breath hitched.

He had never been so mad in his life.

Standing up, Anakin kicked what was left of the shards at Obi-Wan's leg, grabbed his cloak, and flew from the studio, as Obi-Wan followed him with his eyes. His heart fell. Had he done the right thing? Surely Anakin was capable of taking constructive criticism, wasn't he? Obi-Wan mentally slapped himself. Anakin? _Constructive criticism?_ Who was he kidding? He'd broken the stupid boy's heart by telling the truth. He looked around, as all of the students had gone back to chattering, the successful students wrapping their pieces up for storage or for gifts, perhaps to their Masters, the failures picking up the fragments of their pottery and tossing them away to start again. Obi-Wan bent to grab the larger pieces of Anakin's pot, and set them in the waste basket on his way out.

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Obi-Wan had been standing outside of Anakin's bedroom door for an hour now, trying to explain the beauty of failure, that it wasn't really failure, but a closed door that allowed a new one to be opened. He had at least expected Anakin to refute his bullshitting, but not a word was to be heard from the chamber. He wouldn't say he was sorry, because it was his duty. What kind of honest person wouldn't have thrown that horribly pot away? And what kind of Padawan would be so intimately hurt that he refused to open his door and simply admit failure?

_His _Padawan, of course. Obi-Wan sighed loudly, and moved to lay down on the sleeper sofa, admitting defeat. After that situation in the morning, the four hour long council meeting, 'saber practice in the east wing with the advanced younglings, and cooking an ignored dinner for Anakin which still sat at the foot of his door, he was exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to curl up, in his bed or Anakin's, forgive, forget, and sleep. It all seemed so simple, but as usual, Anakin was intent on making everything harder than it had to be. Pulling the quilt from the back of the sofa, he laid down and snuggled against the cushions and blanket, dismissing his worry into the Force. Anakin would come around in time.

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Anakin laid on his bed in the dark, watching the time go by on the clock. It was almost midnight. Surely Obi-Wan would be asleep by now? After all, his tummy was rumbling and he needed food. He had smelled the plate for the last two hours, the scent of a particularly delicious rice stir fry wafting under his door. Anakin stood up slowly, willing his bedroom door open. At his feet sat the cold plate, wrapped with a plastic seal. He smiled slightly, picking it up and taking it to the microwave. Obi-Wan was still asleep on the couch, so he had to be quiet. Every move he made, he used with the Force, simply to prevent his klutziness from waking his Master. He stood, watching the plate move in circles in the box mounted over the stove. Obi-Wan had warned him about standing too close, that the radiation could give him cancer, but Anakin always watched anyways, joking, "But Master, what better way to go than watching a plate of food spinning in circles?"

He felt a little bad for being such an impudent ass. He had always wanted Obi-Wan to be proud of him, but he was the constant obstacle in his own way. If he had just taken the criticism with grace, perhaps it would have, in the end, made up for his terrible ceramics skills. But no, he had to put the final nail in the coffin and be the cocky, sensitive jerk he was always so capable of.

Finishing up the food he had practically inhaled, he put the plate in the sink, and grabbed his cloak from where Obi-Wan had neatly folded it on the chair, and made his way out of the quarters towards the clay room.

Even worse, now he had to make _another pot_ for next week's critique.

Fucking critiques.

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Obi-Wan woke, no surprise, to silence in the quarters around one. He smiled a little to see that Anakin had left the little light on above the stove. He had eaten. Obi-Wan gathered up his strength, and walked towards Anakin's room. It was late, but there was no need for them both to fall asleep with heavy hearts. He felt his cheeks heat up a little at the prospect of 'making up' with Anakin, but before he could entertain these thoughts, he noticed that his door was wide open! He stood, searching his feelings. He was used to his restless Padawan going on walks, his brain too active to stay still for too long. But where could he have gone so late at night? His eyes flew open as his mind located the boy.

Of course.

The studio.

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"Fucking Sith," Anakin barked, prying the crooked clay from the wheel, throwing it as far as he could. How was it that every time he started a new pot it always ended up leaning, and his attempts to fix it cracked the structure?

"Well, I find it amusing that you can hit an enemy fighter with a laser dead on, but you can't even get the clay centered on the wheel," a low voice said behind him. Anakin spun around to see Obi-Wan, dressed only in a pair of drawstring sleep pants, a sweet smile on his chastising face. Anakin groaned and turned to try again. Why did Obi-Wan have to follow him down here to tease him? Was _publicly_ humiliating him not enough? But strangely, Obi-Wan said nothing more of it, and moved to squeeze behind him in the seat. Somehow, all of Anakin's anger melted away at the sensation of his warmth seeping into his back. He subconsciously leaned back, his head falling on Obi-Wan's shoulder.

"Master...I can't make pots," he said, slowly, not really caring. Obi-Wan wrapped his arms around Anakin, not to hold him, but to show him his error.

"You can make pots, Anakin. You just can't center your clay. That's the hardest part," Obi-Wan said tenderly. "Just pretend you're using the clay as a weapon. Try to aim right for the center of the wheel, and throw hard."

Anakin rolled the hunk of wet, gritty clay in his hands, and rared back, making sure not to hit Obi-Wan with his elbow. He breathed out, and threw it onto the wheel, almost hitting the center dead on.

For a while, it seemed like all he could do was blink. He turned to look at Obi-Wan, who smiled at him. He didn't even need to say _"told you so". _It was understood. Anakin shook his head. How did his Master know so much? About _everything_? As if reading his mind, Obi-Wan rested his hands on Anakin's thigh, pressing a little to coax him to activate the pedal.

"I've visited these same shores before you, Anakin. If you need help...you should just ask," he said, pressing his face into the crook of the student's neck. Anakin sighed and nodded, his hands reaching down to work the clay as it spun slowly before him. Everything became hazy and warm, with Obi-Wan's warm words, his body pressed lazily, and yet urgently against his back. He felt Obi-Wan's hands reach down between his thighs. His lips barely touched the shell of his ear, his hot breath making him shiver.

"No, touch it like this," Obi-Wan purred. He guided Anakin's hands on the clay, his own covering Anakin's warm, wet fingers. Together they worked the clay up and down, until the form was smooth. Anakin moaned a little, the motion his hands were making on the clay painfully similar to the motion he wished they were making on himself. Obi-Wan continued his assault on Anakin's sensitive ears, licking the rim, breathing hotly into him how they could make homework so much more fun, and improve their communication all at once. The combination of Obi-Wan's erotic purring and the thundering blood in his ear, the motion of his hands on the vessel elicited a low growl from his wet lips. Trying carefully to maintain the wheel and Obi-Wan, he pressed gently into him, feeling the thick pressure poking into his lower back. It was undeniably frustrating, the erotic energy around him, all that he couldn't act on yet. Obi-Wan surrounded him, teasing him, forcing his attention to the pot he formed, all the while distracting him with words, sensations.

"Rub over the rim, Anakin," Obi-Wan moaned, trying to get Anakin's thumbs to point inwards, to shape the inside of the piece. He pressed firmly into Anakin, creating friction between their bodies, but not enough to throw Anakin off with his work. This was all nulled when his clean hand reached back between Anakin's legs, tugging perfectly at the hot erection that rested flush against Anakin's belly under his sleep pants.

"Nnn...Obi-Wan..." Anakin moaned, throwing his head back to nip at his Master's neck. Obi-Wan continued thrusting into his back, as he tugged Anakin in time, and with his other hand kept Anakin semi-focused on his work. He almost chuckled, noticing that every few thrusts, Anakin would unconsciously press harder on the pedal that spun the wheel, sending it whizzing too fast.

"Anakin, keep going...you're almost there," he said. He did everything he could to prevent himself from coming as Anakin cried out sharply, jerking backwards as he found release, and finished up the pot.

The two simply laid against each other in the potter's seat for a few minutes, breathing and coming down. Anakin spoke, his voice still husky and dark.

"You remember when you offered to tutor me in astrophysics?"

"Yes?"

"I should have taken you up on that," Anakin said smiling. Obi-Wan laughed a little, leaning to press a kiss to his Padawan's temple. He pulled out the knife and began pulling the piece from the wheel for Anakin.

"It looks pretty good, don't you think?" Anakin asked genuinely surprised. Obi-Wan grinned, running a finger into a large gash Anakin had made with his nails while stuck in the throes of his orgasm. Anakin rolled his eyes.

"Well, considering the circumstances," Obi-Wan said, getting up to leave Anakin to his work, "it's quite nice." He pulled on his long brown robe, and started to leave. Anakin wished he wouldn't leave, but knew he couldn't afford to be distracted anymore.

"Master? What would _you_ give me on this if you were critiquing?"

Obi-Wan stopped, and stood behind Anakin, looking down at his face. Obi-Wan bent down, pressing a a wet open mouth kiss to Anakin's flushed lips. He probed the warm mouth with his tongue, and raised up enough to rub his beard over Anakin's chin, sending fresh chills down the younger man's spine. He crooked his mouth into a sultry, smoky smirk before leaving Anakin with the promise of so much more.

"'A' for effort."

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End file.
